


Met With Indifference

by allonsy_gabriel



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Humor, Bad Writing, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Constipation, Gen, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Implied Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens, Kinda, Loneliness, Out of Character, Sad, i guess, probably, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-28
Updated: 2018-02-28
Packaged: 2019-03-25 00:55:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13823064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsy_gabriel/pseuds/allonsy_gabriel
Summary: Alexander Hamilton was many things. Tenacious, ambitious, obnoxious, eloquent, enthusiastic, passionate, intelligent, creative, hard-working; the list went on and on.One thing he wasn’t was lonely.Or succinct, but that wasn’t really the point.Alexander was not lonely. He couldn’t be.





	Met With Indifference

**Author's Note:**

> *looks at the pile of WIP's and deadlined fics in my folder* *laughs nervously* *proceeds to open a new doc anyway*
> 
> i wrote this in two hours. it's shit. it's 100% a vent fic. i'm an asshole.

Alexander Hamilton was many things. Tenacious, ambitious, obnoxious, eloquent, enthusiastic, passionate, intelligent, creative, hard-working; the list went on and on.

One thing he  _ wasn’t _ was lonely.

Or succinct, but that wasn’t really the point.

Alexander was  _ not _ lonely. He  _ couldn’t  _ be.

He had friends— _ so many amazing, wonderful friends _ —and to be lonely would be a disservice, would be  _ dishonest _ —

He couldn’t be lonely. He had John, his John, his dearest Laurens, who understood him nigh on  _ seamlessly _ , who understood him even when he didn’t understand  _ himself _ , who was like a puzzle piece he hadn’t known he was missing, who was able to take the different melodies in his head and turn them into a single, exquisite symphony. John brought out the best in him, set him aflame in a way he hadn’t previously thought possible.  _ How could he be lonely _ ?

He couldn't. He couldn’t be lonely. He had Lafayette, whose excitement bubbled over like a baking soda volcano, who was somehow always a beacon of positivity and encouragement, fierce as hell and more compassionate than he had any right to be. A mess of wonderful, brilliant contradictions, and somehow Alexander had been able to convince this person to be his friend. 

Hercules, who had the innate ability to be the kindest, most supportive person Alexander knew, and somehow also completely capable of telling Alexander to  _ get his head out of his ass, it wasn’t a goddamn hat _ . Always willing to listen, always to be trusted for moral support or a fucking terrible joke.

Eliza, sweet and caring and incredible, who would let Alexander rant for  _ ages _ without interrupting, who threw towels at him and reminded him to  _ be nice _ , who reminded him that he was, in fact, human.

Even fucking  _ Aaron Burr _ could be relied upon in a pinch to be willing to, albeit begrudgingly, sit down and listen to some overzealous spiel before giving logical, reasonable, and occasionally infuriatingly tactful advice.

Even more than that, he had countless colleagues and mentors and acquaintances and just  _ people _ around, all the time. If anything, he was the  _ opposite _ of lonely. He was never alone in the first place.

Alexander  _ couldn’t _ be lonely. It’d be disrespectful, dishonest, ungrateful, to even  _ think  _ about being lonely, when for the first time in his life, Alexander was surrounded by people who  _ loved him _ .

Besides, he didn’t have  _ time _ to be lonely. He had things to  _ do _ , to  _ accomplish _ , to  _ change _ ; there was no room in his schedule for  _ loneliness _ . Hell, there was hardly time in his schedule to  _ eat _ , there was  _ no way _ he had the time for an emotional crisis.

Loneliness simply wasn’t an option.

And yet.

_ And yet _ .

He’d talk and talk and talk, aching for  _ some sort  _ of reply, something more than a half-interested nod or a grunt of distracted acknowledgment. Work twice as hard just so he had more material to discuss. Pick  _ everything _ apart, showcase it all loudly and  _ pray _ someone would just  _ say something _ .

It was beyond idiotic. Insanely selfish. Clingy and annoying and attention-seeking. He  _ knew _ they cared, knew they weren’t just purposefully ignoring him (or, if they were, it was for good reason),  _ and yet _ .

He had lost  _ so much _ .

Yes, he’d moved on. Not  _ recovered _ , per se because there are just some things you  _ don’t recover from _ , but he was here. Better. If not happy or content, then getting there.

_ So what the fuck was this about _ ?

He told himself to get over it—people were  _ busy _ , Alexander included (Alexander more so than most), and if they didn’t have time to  _ spend quality time together _ or some other Hallmark bullshit, then that wasn’t their fault, and it couldn’t be helped.

_ And yet _ .

He felt it creeping in, the fear, the weight, the urging, the feeling of everyone slipping through his fingers like sand, even as he tried to hold onto them.

He didn’t let it show, of course not. It was a  _ weakness _ , a sort of vulnerability that he couldn’t afford, the sort of soft underbelly that could topple his career and his standings and his reputation and his legacy if not properly protected. If Alexander was going down, it would be for something more than an irrational insecurity. It’d be for something  _ exciting _ , like a sex scandal or because he was literally  _ murdered _ .

(Not that he planned on getting involved in murder or sex scandals, but if  _ something  _ had to do him in, it might as well be something  _ big _ .)

So instead, Alexander sat at his desk and wrote, ignored the pressure in his throat and wrote, sneered at literally  _ everything _ Jefferson said  _ ever _ and wrote, pretended that the fact that everything he did was met with an air of unconcerned apathy didn’t affect him at all and wrote, acted like he was  _ fine _ , obviously, and wrote.

Ignored the way he felt like his words were dissolving in the air and  _ wrote _ .

How could he be lonely when he was surrounded by words and ideas and  _ life _ ?

(Somehow, like always, he found a way.)

**Author's Note:**

> ha. haha.
> 
> i'm just going to,,,
> 
> go.
> 
> if you wanna tell me what you think, go for it.


End file.
